Again, But Better

4. I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here
We’re walking down the sidewalk in London together. Pilot and me. Me and Pilot. A cute boy
who’s being nice to me. Who I held a conversation with. My heart is having a dance party. It’s
also wondering, is this, like, a date?
No, it’s not a date, but it’s like … a something.
The sun sits low in the sky and the streets are full of people hustling about. Big red double-
decker buses swish by every few minutes. I can’t help the stupid smile that plasters itself to my
face as I gaze around in wonder like someone who’s never been outside before. When I try to
rearrange it into a more relaxed expression, the smile pops back up of its own volition.
“There are red double-decker buses like you see in the movies!” My voice is thick with
delight. “It’s so surreal. I’ve never been out of the country before, and now I’m just here.”
I look over at Pilot quickly, and then back in front of me, and then back at him, and then back
in front of me. How often should I look over? Is it weird to keep looking over or is it weirder not
to look over? I look over at him again. He’s smiling in a more subtle sort of way. His eyes shine
like he’s excited about London too, but he’s got it smothered under a nice layer of chill.
We trot quietly down Kings Gate in the general direction of where the grocery store is
supposed to be. Pilot has his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. We pass pretty white house
with pillars after pretty white house with pillars, all the way down the road until we come to a
stop at a busy intersection.
“Is this where we turn, you think?” I ask.
I gaze around for the tall metal posts with green signs labeled with the names of the streets
that we all know and love in the United States—and come up empty. I already miss my phone
GPS.
“I think…” He squints across the way. “It’s another block down.”
I turn away from the street to gaze at him warily. “You only sound, like, sixty-two percent
sure about that.”
He raises a hand to stroke his chin and glances dramatically from right to left. “I’d say I’m
more like thirty-seven percent sure.”
“Where are the street signs?” My head swishes from one corner to the next. There are no
poles. This is so disorienting.
The 
So You’re Going to Study Abroad
pamphlet did extensively delve into a phenomenon
called culture shock. At the time I scoffed, because come on, it sounds dumb. But dang, I guess
it’s starting.
“Okay, I’m, like, forty-three percent sure now that we go straight for another block,” Pilot
decides.
I smile and shrug. “Okay.”
I look to my left and take a few steps forward into the street.
“Shane!” Pilot grabs my arm and heaves me back as a car races by a foot from my face.
My lungs suck up all the air in a ten-foot radius as adrenaline spikes through me. Pilot drops
his hand from my arm as I spin to face him, mortified.

---

“Holy shit, I forgot about the cars coming from the other way. Oh my god!” I bury my face in
my hands for a second.
Four hours in, and I’ve almost gotten myself hit by a car and killed via a flight of steps.
“Don’t worry. I almost died a few times after I got here yesterday.” Pilot starts crossing the
street. I silently scurry after him.
“But I mean, I didn’t, because I remembered and looked both ways before actually stepping
out into oncoming traffic.” He turns around as we reach the curb to smirk at me.
I shoot him a surprised grin. “Shut up!” I burst, reflexively whacking him in the arm. A half a
second later, I stare at my own arm aghast. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I
have this habit of smacking people sometimes—”
He laughs, interrupting me. “You have a habit of smacking people?”
“No.” My voice rises a few pitches. “I mean, not smacking people. Jeez.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean, hitting people, lightly, sometimes.”
His eyes narrow. “Is this a serious problem? Do you go to meetings for this?”
I bite back a laugh. “No!”
“Uh-huh.” He’s still smirking at me.
“Why are you smirking?” I protest.
He continues to smirk.
“Stop,” I squeal. Before I realize it, I’ve whacked him in the arm again. Oh god. I stutter to
apologize.
His smile widens as he jumps away in mock horror. “There she goes again with the violence.
I just saved your life, and this is how I’m treated.”
I bury my face in my hands, laughing.
We come to the end of another block and turn right down whatever nameless road we’ve
reached. I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than Pilot. How close we’re walking.
How he’s looking at me with his lips pursed like he’s suppressing a grin.
I blow out a breath. “Maybe I do have a problem,” I concede as somberly as I can. “I’ll try
and keep it under control.”
“First step is acceptance,” he says, putting on a haughty voice and bumping me lightly in the
shoulder. Another laugh huffs out of me. Up ahead I can make out a sign with red glowing letters
that reads 
TESCO
. The name rings a bell.
“That’s the grocery store, right? Tes-co,” I test the word on my tongue. “Interesting name for
a grocery store.”
“Shane. Interesting name for a girl,” he teases.
I narrow my eyes. “Pilot. Interesting name for a human.” He snorts.
When Tesco’s doors slide open, we’re greeted with an onslaught of familiar sounds: carts
squealing, elevator-esque music playing overhead, and the repetitive beeps as people check out.
“So, Shane, what kind of music do you listen to?” Pilot asks, as I scoop up a basket.
“Music? Who brought up music? We’re getting food.” I snicker shamelessly at my bluntness.
I don’t usually say stuff like that to people I’ve just met. I look at Pilot again. “I don’t want to
answer that; it feels like a trick question.”
“I’m just curious!” he says innocently.
“You write music, so I think there’s a ninety percent chance you’re a music snob.”

---

“I am not a music snob.” He pauses and his lip quirks up. “I’m only a little bit of a music
snob.”
My smile is big and stupid again. “Do you want to go through all the aisles? Is that okay?
Because I really, really want to go through all the aisles.” I power walk into the first one, and
Pilot trails behind.
“Pilot, look at these soda bottles. Are you seeing this? They’re slightly skinnier than our soda
bottles!” I gesture wildly to the soda lining the shelves.
He grins. “So you were about to tell me about the music you listen to,” he prompts again. We
turn into the next aisle.
“I listen to all types of music,” I answer diplomatically, as I reach down and pick up a tub of
Nutella to drop into my basket. “I have a general appreciation for music.” We stroll past the
peanut butters and the jellies. “I like the Beatles…”
“Wait.” Pilot comes to an abrupt stop mid-aisle.
“What?” I say hesitantly.
“The Beatles?” he breathes. “No way. You like them? No. Way. No. Way—”
I roll my eyes. “Stop—” I interject.
“No. Way!”
“Stop!” My voice hits squeak levels yet unknown to mankind.
“I love them! I thought I was the only one who knew about them.” He beams.
I run away into the next aisle. I hear him laughing behind me as I enter the bread section. I
definitely like this boy. I skid to a stop in front of the UK pasta spread. All the pasta is bagged.
What even! In America we box pasta!
“The pasta is all in bags!” I turn to Pilot, expecting him to share my sentiment.
He looks like he’s about to make fun of me again.
I try not to smile. “No, ’cause in the United States, most of the pasta is in boxes!” He shakes
his head, grinning. “This is an interesting tidbit, Pilot. You’ll be happy I pointed this out in the
future when you need to know it … for a game show trivia question about how England
packages their pasta.”
I drop a bag into my basket and skip—oh dear lord, did I really just skip?—down the aisle to
find the tomato sauce and skid to another abrupt stop. I shuffle back a bit to make sure I haven’t
missed anything before emitting an involuntary gasp.
Pilot appears at my side. “You okay?”
“It’s just this sauce section,” I explain.
His mouth twitches. “Did the sauce offend you?”
“No, but look. There’s only two types of tomato sauce here. What kind of world does
England live in where there’s only two types of sauce!” I gesture around wildly for emphasis.
He takes a step back, smiling broadly now, and points casually toward the sauce and then
back to me. “Did you … did you gasp because of the sauce?”
Blood seeps into my cheeks. “Sauce is a big deal.”
I flounder to grab a jar so we can move on and out of this aisle. As I snatch it off the shelf, a
second jar slides to the edge along with it. My breath catches, and I lunge to snatch it out of the
air, but I’m not fast enough. I leap backward as the second jar crashes to the ground. The glass
shatters, and a mild splattering of sauce lands across my feet.
I freeze, staring at the floor. I can’t believe I dropped a jar of sauce in front of Pilot. Shit.
Shit, shit.

---

After a second, someone takes my arm and pulls me out of the aisle, away from the
destruction zone. It’s Pilot … He’s touching my arm again. He’s laughing. We turn a corner into
an aisle full of alcohol.
He lets go and looks at me pointedly. “You murdered the sauce, Shane.”
I shake my head. “Accident,” I squeak.
Pilot scans the shelves before reaching down to scoop up a case of English cider called
Strongbow. He clucks his tongue, shakes his head, and suppresses a smile as we head toward the
checkout counter. “And the violence continues.”
We make our way back to the Karlston at a slower pace. I’ve suddenly decided that I want to call
Pilot 
Pies,
and I don’t know if that’s okay. Pies is fun to say, and then we’re friends, right? Or,
we’re something? Where there’s a nickname, there’s a bond. That’s what I … always say.
“Can I call you Pies?” I blurt into the night. “Sorry. I wouldn’t ask, but I really want to call
you Pies,” I finish hesitantly.
When I look over, he’s smiling. My shoulders relax a smidge.
“Sure, you can, Sauce Killer.”
I beam. “Oh, but I’d prefer if you didn’t call me Sauce Killer,” I respond politely.
He snorts.
“Do a lot of people already call you Pies?”
“Nope, that’s a new one.”
My heart sings a tiny bit at the idea of having created a new nickname that no one else uses
for him.
“What do people call you?” I ask, curious now.
“Pilot … or Pi.”
“Pi? Like in math? You’re not Pi like in math, though. That feels kind of cold. You’re more of
a pie-pie. Pies are warm and wonderful and delicious—” I cut myself off. Okay, there’s outgoing
and then there’s 
this.
He looks at me funny. My eyes fall to the ground as a new wave of embarrassment courses
through my system. We walk in silence for a few moments.
“So, are you going to write about this grocery store adventure in your blog?” Pilot asks.
“Oh, yeah,” I answer, grasping at the subject change. “I’m planning a whole exposé about
this pasta in bags versus boxes phenomenon.”
“I can’t miss that,” he says seriously. I laugh. “What’s your blog called?” he continues.
My eyelids snap up. I didn’t think about the part where I’d actually have to tell him what my
blog is called. He’s smiling at me again. My heart hops around idiotically. I can’t handle all this.
I focus on the ground again. “Um … you know what? It’s nothing. You don’t really want to
know.” I pick up the pace a little. I think we’re only a block away from the Karlston now. Maybe
I can deflect this question.
“Hey, you said I could read your stuff,” he protests quietly.
“It’s a weird name,” I confess.
“What is it?” he asks again.
I stay quiet, power walking.
“Shane!” He speeds up to match my pace, laughing as he catches my eyes. “You have to tell
me.”

---

He’s full-on beaming now, and it makes me feel all floaty. Fluttery and floaty. He stops
walking and I stop walking, and we smile at each other.
“It’s FrenchWatermelonNineteen,” I mumble, the words running together.
Pilot laughs. “I’m sorry, what was that? French. Watermelon. Nineteen?” he clarifies slowly.
“FrenchWatermelonNineteen.” I smoosh my lips together so my smile isn’t as toothy. His
smile is toothy.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Okay. French Watermelon Nineteen. What’s so weird about that? It’s
so normal. Practically boring. I know, like, five other people who go by French Watermelon
Nineteen on the internet. Are you French?”
“Nope.” I feel sheepish. I try to make my face look sheepish.
He raises his eyebrows.
I drop my gaze to his shoes. “I’m … a big fan of French toast.”
He answers immediately. “Oh, me too. Who isn’t?”
I look up again, and he’s closer. How did he get closer? I think I’m shaking. Anxiety springs
up through my legs. I’m all unsteady, like I could be blown over by the next gust of wind. I’m
not sure what happens now. Eye contact game is strong. My words come out quiet. “Also I love
watermelons and the number nineteen, and so, I did what any rational human would have done—
smashed them together into a weird blob of a word that would follow me around for the rest of
my life.”
He nods. “So, French Watermelon.”
Is he closer?
“Nineteen,” I finish.
What’s happening? Is the sidewalk moving?
“I think it’s a fantastic name.”
We’re standing so close. His eyes are inches away. I’m holding on to the grocery bag for dear
life. Freight train has replaced heart.
And then my eyes swing down to look at a crack in the super-clean London sidewalk. When I
raise them a moment later, Pilot’s three feet away again. He’s turned towards the Karlston.
“Look at that. We made it back.” He looks back at me. “Ready to round up the flatmates and
get the bonding rolling?”
I stare at him. “Um, yeah, of course. I’ve been awake for thirty-four hours now, what’s a few
more … I have some icebreaker games loaded on my iPod that’ll be perfect.”
He grins and jogs up the front steps to the door. I expel the giant breath I’ve been very aware
of holding for the past thirty seconds.
It’s so dark in our room. Sahra’s asleep, but I’ve caught a second wind. Up in the bunk, I turn on
my laptop for light, grab a pen, and throw open a fresh page in the new Horcrux.